I visited the cemetery every day for a month, holding vigil at the same grave, repeatedly running my fingers over the word "Beloved" on the headstone. I was there even when the sky ripped itself apart and poured agony. I didn't feel it anyway.
The once bare mound sprouted grass, a reminder that time didn't stop to mourn any death. The white lilies left on the day of the funeral had long ago browned and shriveled and turned to dust. I didn't replace the flowers, instead leaving bouquets of memories.
A month, and finally he came. My sweet angel, swaddled in white, the light of the afternoon sun a halo around his head.
How beautiful and perfect he was, tiny in his father's arms.
"Mommy loves you, always," I whispered, my words just a gentle breeze blowing through his fine, brown hair. He softly cooed, his father looking down at him and smiling before placing a single red rose on the headstone, just above the words "Beloved Wife and Mother."
Lisa Lerma Weber is an October baby always on the lookout for ghosts. Her work has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Barren Magazine, Burning House Press, Feminine Collective, Mojave Heart Review, Rabid Oak, and others. Follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber